Giotto
by ChaoticDiversion
Summary: Tsuna had always been able to remember a time when he spoke Italian and answered to the name Giotto, and he was content with just that knowledge. But after witnessing the assassination of Takeshi's father… Well, everything went down the rabbit hole from there. [Drabble-style story.]
1. I - V

A/N: This is written as a series of drabbles, so each section will be short and primarily introspective, with only a bit of dialogue here and there. I may change or rearrange a few canon details to fit better, but these changes should be mostly unnoticeable. Please let me know what you think!

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**Giotto  
I-V**

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I.

Sawada Tsunayoshi was four when he first understood why he'd always felt so uncomfortable. It wasn't a sudden epiphany, but rather a slowly dawning realization that took place over the course of a year. The memories had always been there, just not the ability to understand what they were.

Once his name had been Giotto.

"Ah," Giotto said, blinking at the little plastic action figure in his hands. "I was not expecting this."

Giotto smiled faintly. He carefully set down the toy and stumbled to his feet. His body had always felt odd, like it didn't quite fit on his bones, but he'd gotten used to it enough to manage. He ran out of his bedroom, tripping on the edge of the carpet, and then caught himself on the door frame. Without missing a beat, he rushed down the stairs.

The bigger question was _why_. Giotto had lived a long life and died in his sleep, content and accepting. He'd had a weak heart for a decade before his death, so he'd had years to come to terms with it. Giotto had no dying will burning when he passed, no business left unconcluded. He had his regrets, certainly, but nothing that gnawed away at him; nothing that would, in his mind, warrant what appeared to be a reincarnation.

"Mamma," Giotto called out as he reached the living room. "Avete mai sentito parlare di Giotto Vongola?"

The honey-haired woman who was his mother in this life looked up at him from where she lounged on the couch with a glass of wine, her brow crinkled with confusion. "Tsu-kun?"

Giotto blushed, belatedly realizing that he'd spoken in Italian. Clearing his throat he repeated in Japanese, "Mama, have you ever heard of Vongola Giotto?"

Nana's expression cleared as she swirled around her wineglass, then took a sip. "Vongola? I don't think… Ah!" She brightened. "Not long after Tsu-kun was born, Papa researched his family history. He found out that his ancestor came from Italy and retired to Japan. That's why Papa went traveling, to find out more about his heritage, and now he's become a star!"

While Nana squealed, Giotto smiled indulgently at her enthusiasm. He rather doubted that was what actually happened, especially if Iemitsu had been searching for the Vongola. Added to the fact that the man had only returned home twice in the past year… Well, the situation wasn't exactly uncommon, at least in his original time, but a part of Giotto hoped Iemitsu hadn't found what he was looking for. Giotto didn't want to have anything to do with the Vongola anymore; he didn't even want to find out what they'd turned into.

"Thank you, Mama," Giotto said, and then left the room before Nana could coo over him again.

That explained his appearance at least. Giotto had wondered why his current body looked exactly like his previous self as a child, but if he was his own ancestor… Giotto made a face. On second thought, that was just really weird. At least his hair was more brown than blond. It was a small difference, but somehow it felt important.

II.

Giotto had always been a firm believer that pity was a useless emotion. Sympathy and empathy were good—they helped people to connect. But pity was inaction. It meant noticing a person's situation, then moving on without the attempt to help or acknowledge their struggle. If a person noticed someone's misfortune then they should move to do something about it, or else feel nothing at all.

And yet, Giotto pitied his mother.

He hadn't understood her, initially. She was a distinctly odd woman who kept her head in the clouds 90% of the time. As a toddler there had been more than once instance where she'd forgotten to feed him and he'd been forced to seek a snack for himself. Ultimately Giotto thought it might be for the best—he had the independent mind of an adult and it rankled him to be coddled, and yet…

Giotto had vague, faded memories of his original mother. She was a stern woman who had died when he was a child, but she'd been warm and attentive. Too attentive, he'd thought at the time. Restricting and unfair and… He'd missed her very much when she'd passed, but he thought he missed her even more now. Nana was a kind woman with good intentions, and she always panicked whenever she realized she'd forgotten to take care of her son, but intentions meant nothing without action.

Nana always had a drink in her hand. She wasn't an alcoholic, not quite, but she toed the line daily and it only made her get lost in her head all the more. But… Giotto thought he understood, at least a little. He hadn't seen Iemitsu in nearly two years now, though the man had called five times. Nana drank an entire bottle of wine on their anniversary and half a bottle on Giotto's birthday.

The worst part was that there was nothing he could do about it. Giotto looked a lot like his father, as Nana told him constantly, and the more time he tried to spend with her, the further away she drifted. It took months of awkwardly tiptoeing around Nana before they settled into a distant but warm relationship in which Tsuna mostly took care of himself, while his mother smiled in the background and welcomed him home each night.

At the very least Nana was able to answer all the questions Giotto had about how the world had changed in the years since he'd died. Somehow he wasn't surprised that it had been two centuries, not when he saw all the astounding vehicles and lights. They had televisions to transmit pictures, phones to speak over long distances, refrigerators to preserve food, and a million other gadgets whose functions Giotto could only begin to imagine.

It was a strange new world, and more than just a little terrifying. Nana gave him a "game system" for his birthday and, after taking ten minutes to figure out how to turn it on, Giotto nearly burned it up when it started beeping and flashing at him. It was now collecting dust on his shelf. For the time being Giotto would stick with just his books and let the rest of the world pass him by.

III.

One week into his first year of schooling and Giotto was already struggling. They were starting off with numbers and writing, basic things that all six years olds were able to learn with no trouble. And yet…it was tripping up Giotto up. Because it was so simple he kept getting distracted and slipping into Italian instead, and then confusing Japanese with English and Italian until the elementary five question worksheet he was supposed to be completing was covered in scribbles and it looked like he didn't understand a thing.

And not to mention writing in Japanese… They were learning three writing systems—Hiragana, Katakana, and some Kanji—and almost all of it was different from what he'd learned in his original life. At least Giotto could speak Japanese with ease, though he'd been told he spoke archaically by more than one person already, and half the time the other children just stared at him blankly as though they couldn't understand him at all. Giotto had thought that the first few years of his life would be more than enough to adjust to this time period and suitably fit in, but the way the other children, and even the teacher at times, avoided him clearly said that he'd failed in that regard.

So it was one week in and already Giotto had been ostracized as "that weird kid". Giotto was fairly sure that the primary teacher of his class thought he was an idiot savant and his mother just giggled through the first parent-teacher meeting, too tipsy to really grasp what the teacher told her. With a sigh he resigned himself to sitting at the back of the class, struggling through his language complications alone. Giotto didn't really want to interact with the other literally-nose-picking children anyway. He'd already done the whole child-rearing thing and, as much as he loved his own children and the single grandchild he'd gotten the chance to meet before his death, they were entirely too sticky and screechy to spend much time around.

Miserably, Giotto wondered if there was any way to escape this hell. He wasn't sure that he could survive another six years of primary school, at least not without burning down the building.

IV.

Year 2 of primary school was easier than the first. Giotto's writing skills had improved drastically, though he still made more mistakes than his pride would readily admit. But the concepts were easy, and even though at lot of it was new information (the world had changed a lot in 200 years in he'd only had a couple of years of education originally anyway) he sped through most of it.

But on the first day of Year 3, Giotto saw him.

There was a boy in Giotto's class who sat two seats ahead of him. He had black hair and brown eyes and chubby cheeks, but underneath all that… Giotto _knew_ him. Underneath all the tiny differences was his friend and guardian, Asari Ugetsu.

Giotto hadn't noticed him at first, but then as he settled into his new seat on that first day he heard a laugh that was so familiar it was like a punch to the gut. Giotto's head jerked up and as soon as he caught sight of the little boy, he couldn't stop staring. It was his Rain Guardian, in the flesh. And while part of him said that was impossible—Ugetsu had been alive and healthy when Giotto died—the rest of him whispered hopefully that if he'd been reincarnated, who was to say that others hadn't been too?

Giotto walked up to the boy and opened his mouth—and stopped. What should he say? How did one even start a conversation like this?

"Hi!" the boy said, smiling brightly. "I'm Yamamoto Takeshi. Who are you?"

There was no recognition in his eyes. No spark of wonder, nothing. Giotto stood there with his mouth still hanging open and couldn't find anything to say around the sinking feeling in his stomach. When the other children around them started giggling and glancing between themselves, Giotto let his head drop. He muttered something unintelligible and shuffled back to his seat, then spent the rest of the day with his head in his arms, pretending that he didn't want to cry for the first time in this life.

Giotto was certain—so sure, right down into the heart of his Dying Will—that the boy called Takeshi was his Rain Guardian. He was also certain that Takeshi remembered nothing of his past life as Ugetsu.

It was painful to be so close to his dearest friend and have him still not recognize him, and yet… Giotto couldn't stop watching him. He never directly approached Takeshi again but he still kept an eye on him at all times. It helped that he sat behind the boy in class and then he could carefully follow him home, making sure that Takeshi was safe. Giotto dithered back and forth, wondering whether he should wait until Takeshi was older before trying to befriend or stay away entirely and let the boy live his life.

It wasn't stalking, Giotto assured himself. Just…concerned watching.

V.

It was in the middle of the summer of Giotto's seventh year of new life when every changed. He had followed Takeshi home again, walking about a block behind him and keeping the little boy just in sight in case anything happened, but far enough away that the boy wouldn't see him. Giotto had just started to relax because the restaurant Takeshi's father owned—named Takesushi, amusingly enough—was in sight. But then, just as Takeshi reached the door, a loud roar erupted from the back of the building.

Giotto froze in place for nearly a full second, then before he knew it he was flying across the street, racing for the building. He bounded inside two steps behind Takeshi and pulled the boy back with a hand on his shoulder.

"Stay here," Giotto ordered, barely seeing the shocked and scared look on Takeshi's face. "Wait until your father comes out."

Almost before the words left his mouth, Giotto was already running across the room toward the door that led into the back. The restaurant was empty—unusual for this time of the afternoon—even though the sign on the door said _Open_. The loud clanging of metal on metal rang from the back and got infinitely louder as Giotto dashed through a hall and shoved open a traditional Japanese sliding door.

There was a dojo in the back of the building—the traditional kind, which was little more than a long, open room. Giotto saw flashes of silver and felt the prickle of Dying Will Flames filling the room, invisible to the naked eye, as two men fought. Despite himself, Giotto stopped in his tracks for a moment to stare.

Both men were master swordsmen, that much was instantly obvious even to Giotto. The first was Yamamoto Tsuyoshi, Takeshi's father. He looked grim and determined, and there was a line of red slowly growing on the material of his right sleeve. The other man was more a teenager than anything—he couldn't have been more than 17 or 18—and had short silver hair that spiked up in the back. He yelled with each clash of their swords, grinning widely and looking like he was having the time of his life.

"Voi!" the teen crowed. "Just you and Tyr, and then I'll truly be the Sword Emperor—!"

"I have cut all ties with them," Yamamoto snapped, but the teen didn't seem to be listening.

It was over in an instant. One second they were fighting and the next… Yamamoto faltered as he blocked with his sword, wincing in pain from the wound on his arm. The teen took advantage of it and, faster than Giotto's blink, his sword was buried nearly to the hilt in Yamamoto's chest.

Giotto's Flames flared up instantly and he flew across the room and crashed into the teen while cursing himself wildly in his head. How could he let himself hesitate for so long? He should have stopped the fight immediately, he should have protected Takeshi's father, he should have—

The silver haired teen snarled, but without his sword he wasn't nearly as powerful and even in a child's body, Giotto's Dying Will Flames gave him more than enough strength. Giotto slipped into Hyper Dying Will mode like putting on an old glove, and casually threw the teen across the room. The boy tried to regain his footing, but Giotto crossed the distance between them in a fraction of a second, grabbed him by the throat, and then slammed him into the floor.

Giotto hesitated for moment as the boy shouted out in pain and tried to grab at Giotto's hand. Despite everything, the boy was just that—still a boy. Still young and— And then Giotto heard Takeshi come running into the room, screaming his father's name. Giotto's eyes hardened. With his back to Takeshi, the child's voice sounded even more like Ugetsu's.

Giotto didn't even have to control his Flames. They flared up on their own, growing as hot as an inferno in the span of second. The teen only had time to open his mouth to scream, and then his entire body was on fire. A second later the white fire faded away, leaving only blackened, brittle bones behind.

The Flames dimmed, but Giotto still held tightly onto his Hyper Dying Will. Slowly he turned back to where Takeshi was crying over his father, but didn't approach. Yamamoto was still alive, but only barely. The sword that was still in his chest had prevented him from bleeding out immediately, but he was drowning in his own blood, if the wet coughing was any clue. He had a minute or two left at the most by Giotto's estimate.

"—Under the stove," Yamamoto was whispering to his son between coughs. His breathing was shallow and measured. "C-call the number. He'll help. I'm sorry, Takeshi. Be careful—"

He coughed again, loud and rasping, and Takeshi sobbed harder. Even with his emotions held back by his Flames, Giotto wanted to look away. He didn't. This was his fault, for not stepping in sooner. He would watch and remember each moment of the pain he'd caused his Rain Guardian, as penance.

One minute later, Yamamoto stopped breathing. Ten minutes later, Takeshi stopped crying and instead stared blankly at his father's corpse. His hands, stained with blood, hung limp at his sides. When Giotto finally stepped forward, he looked up slowly, blinking lethargically. His gaze was glassy and distant, and Giotto frowned internally, recognizing the look.

"What did he tell you to do?" Giotto asked softly.

"There's…a box…" Takeshi said slowly. "He said…the stove…"

Giotto cautiously pulled the child to his feet, half expecting him to break down again. Takeshi was definitely in shock and he walked to the kitchen like a ghost, barely noticing where they were going. He pointed to the main stove—a huge metal thing that resembled no stove Giotto had ever seen before—then watched silently as Giotto ran his hands around it, searching for some kind of latch. After several minutes Giotto was finally able to pull off a panel on the bottom, then lifted up a loose tile underneath the stove.

It was lucky that he had small hands, because Giotto was barely able to pull out the old wooden box that Yamamoto had hidden away. Giotto wordlessly slid the box over to Takeshi, who stared at it for another few minutes before opening it.

There was a gun inside. At least Giotto thought it was a gun. It had the same shape, but otherwise looked entirely different than the pistols Giotto was familiar with and was made of a strange, smooth black metal. Underneath were several thick wads of money in different currencies, passports, credit cards, and other things that a sushi chef had no reason to have.

Takeshi stared blankly into the box. "H-he said he used to be an assassin. He said he used to work for the mafia," Takeshi mumbled, more to himself than Giotto. "What…" He looked up, and even though his glassy eyes were brown instead of gray, Giotto's heart constricted because all he could see was his old friend staring at him with that lost, empty look. "W-what do I do?"

"The number," Giotto reminded him as gently as he could. "Your father wanted you to call a number, didn't he?"

Takeshi nodded jerkily. He reached down toward the box, then stopped and stared at the blood that had dried on his hands. Wincing, Giotto took Takeshi over to the sink to wash up, then started sifting through the box himself. There was only one number Yamamoto could have meant, though Giotto stared down at it dubiously. It was written on a scrap of paper, clearly torn off from some kind of form and hastily scribbled down. There was no name to go with it.

This was what the mafia did to people, Giotto thought bitterly. He could only imagine what the mafia had grown into in the years since his death. And the Vongola… He didn't even want to think about them. If he was lucky, they had been destroyed long ago.

When Takeshi kneeled down next to him, Giotto wordlessly handed over the number. Takeshi pulled down the corded phone hanging on the wall of the hallway and, after several tries to punch in the number with shaking hands, wordlessly handed over the phone. Giotto held it awkwardly, having never actually dialed a phone before, but managed to press the correct buttons regardless. He held the device between the two of them as it rang.

Two seconds later there was a click and then a rough voice said, "Hello?"

Takeshi swallowed audibly. "U-um, my dad told me to call you. He's Yamamoto Tsuyoshi. He said— he said—"

"What happened?" the man asked.

"I don't— He was—" Takeshi's voice hitched and Giotto gripped his shoulder, knowing the boy was only inches away from crying again, but thankfully the man caught on quickly.

"Are you at your father's restaurant?"

"Y-yes…"

"Is anyone else there?"

"My friend," Takeshi said, his eyes flickering over. Giotto stilled, not sure how to respond to that label. What did Takeshi think of what he'd done? He'd seen Giotto burn a man to death, but he hadn't said a word about it yet.

"Stay there," the man said shortly. "Don't go outside, and don't call anyone else. I'll be there in an hour. Understand?"

"Yes…"

The phone clicked again as the line went dead. Takeshi stayed where he was, staring at the wall with the phone in his hands until Giotto carefully took it from him. He guided Takeshi up the stairs, away from the open door that led into the dojo, and then sat with him on the top stair. They stayed there in silence for the full hour, neither looking at the other.


	2. VI - X

Warnings: Language and minor gore.

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**Giotto  
VI-X**

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IV.

The knock at the front door was inordinately loud. Takeshi jumped at the sound and looked at Giotto. Breathing slowly out through his nose, Giotto gestured for the boy to stay, then jumped down the stairs. He ducked below the windows to keep out of sight, glad for his small stature for once. When he reached the front door Giotto eased it open a crack, careful to keep most of his body shielded behind it. The wood wouldn't offer much protection against a bullet, but it would give him time to react if nothing else.

The man on the other side was in his mid-twenties, at most. He had cropped hair and black eyes with dark rings under them. His lips were pulled down into a grim frown.

More importantly, there was a second man—middle-aged, portly, heavy-footed; not a fighter—waiting by the road, in front of a van that advertised itself as belonging to a cleaning company. Giotto's hand squeezed the edge of the door as his eyes flickered back up to the first man.

Giotto's mind raced as he took stock of the situation. He felt certain that this man knew Yamamoto Tsuyoshi through underground connections. There were yakuza tattoos peeking out of his shirt collar, he had at least five knives on him that Giotto could spot, and the man behind him was definitely a cleaner—the illegal kind that dealt with carpets stained with blood rather than wine. But Yamamoto had trusted this man, enough to preparer his number for Takeshi in the event of his death. A close associate then. Since Yamamoto had assumingly retired around the time Takeshi had been born, the latest they could have known each other was when this man was in his late teens. But this kind of trust took years to develop… Not an associate, but a student. Maybe even a protégé.

"Yamamoto Takeshi?" the man asked.

"No," Giotto said. Abruptly he opened the door and waved the man through. "In there," he said, pointing down the hall to the dojo. "Another swordsman challenged Yamamoto-san. He won."

The man's face tightened for a brief second. It was a nearly invisible reaction, but even without Dying Will Mode active Giotto's hyper intuition was still over-sensitive so he had little trouble picking up on the change.

"And the assassin?" the man asked carefully as he stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the restaurant's interior.

"Gone," Giotto said shortly, then leaned out the door. He raised his voice just enough for the cleaner to hear him. "There's an alley in the back that will give you more private access. I'll unlock the door."

Once the cleaner had nodded and retreated, Giotto bolted the front door. He had already flipped the sign to read _Closed_. He unlocked the back door he'd mentioned, quietly glad for yet another bit of good information he'd gotten from his not-quite-stalking. When he was finished Giotto found Yamamoto's student standing in the doorway to the dojo, head bowed respectfully. Definitely a student, Giotto thought, eyeing the tense lines of the man's back. Yamamoto had clearly kept in contact with him, so…

Giotto would trust him. For now.

"We'll be waiting upstairs until its done," Giotto said softly. The man didn't respond.

Takeshi was still sitting on the top stair where Giotto had left him. Some of the shock had faded, Giotto noted with relief, and though his face was still covered in red splotches, Takeshi's amber eyes were sharp and flinty.

"Come on, let's pack your things," Giotto said, lightly touching Takeshi's shoulder.

Takeshi looked surprised at that, even as he rose to his feet. "We're…leaving?"

Giotto grimaced and damned the mafia in his head again. "The… the swordsman likely worked for the mafia, considering your father's…history," Giotto said. And the teen had been yelling in Italian, though Giotto hadn't realized it in the heat of the moment. "And if that's case then someone will come looking for him sooner or later, when he doesn't report in."

_And your father is dead. You can't stay here_, Giotto added in his head.

Takeshi seemed to understand the unspoken part anyway, if the way his head dipped was any indication. He wordlessly led Giotto into his room, took a sports bag out of his closest, and started to fill it with clothes. Half way through he suddenly started to laugh. It was a sound that made Giotto's heart clench—hysterical giggles that barely hid the sobs they were intended to cover.

"I don't even know your name," Takeshi said as he scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I-I know you're in my class, but…"

Giotto knelt down on the other side of the bag and offered Takeshi an awkward smile when the boy looked up. Takeshi didn't seem angry or scared, just…lost. It disturbed Giotto more than he cared to admit to see such an expression on a face that had once belonged to Ugetsu. Giotto pushed that thought out of his mind and took a deep breath. Ugetsu had been his brother, but Takeshi was still just a little boy who'd just lost his father.

"I am Sawada Tsunayoshi, but you can call me Giotto," he said. "I am… I am sorry. I didn't—"

Takeshi shook his head rapidly at that so Giotto stopped, even though he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. Was Takeshi rejecting his memory of what had happened? Giotto had seen that happen sometimes to children who were scarred and it never ended well.

"You killed that…assassin…" Takeshi said. He faltered for a second as a full body shiver wracked him, then straightened met Giotto's gaze squarely. "You avenged my father. Thank you." He bowed over the bag, trying for a traditional pose that his father had doubtlessly taught him. Being a seven year old child, he didn't quite manage the gravity he was trying to convey. Giotto felt a lump form in his throat regardless.

"Of course," Giotto whispered. He wanted to say,_ It's my fault, I could have saved your father_, but he swallowed the words before they could form. They would only make things worse for Takeshi right now.

"But…that fire…"

Giotto winced. "Ah, those were Dying Will Flames."

The boy nodded. He didn't ask any further questions about them, and instead returned to his packing. After getting his toothbrush, thanks to a reminder from Giotto, they headed back to the stairs.

Five minutes later, Yamamoto's student appeared at the base of the stairway. His eyes were automatically drawn to Takeishi and his brow rose nearly to his hairline. When Takeshi took a step to the side so that he was half hidden behind Giotto, the man cleared his throat and looked away.

"Sorry, it's just… You look exactly like your dad," he said.

"What is your name?" Giotto asked.

When the man met Giotto's gaze his whole stance changed, straightening and tensing, like he knew he was talking to a man instead of a child. Good instincts, Giotto mused. He was probably quite a skilled hitman.

"Kakeru. And you are?"

"Giotto."

"Johto," the man repeated, his pronunciation slightly off. "That sounds…foreign."

"It is."

Kakeru nodded and dropped the matter. "Everything has been…cleaned up," he said, eyes flickering to Takeshi again for a moment. "Tsuyoshi already had a set of instructions in place in case something like this happened, so his lawyer will handle that part. The restaurant will be sold and the proceeds from the sale, along with the rest of his assets, will be put into a trust for his son."

Takeshi gripped the back of Giotto's shirt, but said nothing.

"Yamamoto-san wanted him to go with you, I assume?" Giotto said.

"Yes." Kakeru grimaced. "For now, at least. I'm not…exactly the best person to handle this, but… I'll do my best to figure something out, I swear it." He bowed at the waist, much as Takeshi had just minutes ago.

Giotto rubbed the bridge of his nose and resisted the urge to sigh. Nana would take Takeshi in without question, he knew. But if more assassins came then Giotto would be placing her in direct danger, and that was something he could never do. And yet…Giotto couldn't just leave Takeshi with Kakeru and pretend that nothing had happened. Every bone in his body rebelled against the idea, and his mind instantly tossed out the thought.

"I am going with Takeshi," Giotto announced.

Kakeru shot up to a standing position, eyes wide with surprise for a full second before he managed to wipe his expression. He was so young for an assassin, Giotto thought mournfully. Giotto thought he'd gotten used to being younger than everyone again, but little things like this kept making him feel older instead.

"I am responsible for him," Giotto explained. What had happened was his fault and he would take responsibility for any child he orphaned, but with Takeshi being his Rain Guardian on top of that…

Takeshi's grip on the material of his shirt tightened, but he still kept his silence. Kakeru, on the other hand, was starting to fidget and Giotto's hyper intuition immediately picked the motion up as a sign of panic. He was definitely still young—he probably had no idea how to take care of one kid, never mind two.

"Your parents—" Kakeru said.

"Are in danger because of this incident," Giotto smoothly interrupted. He didn't bother to explain about his father's likely connections to the mafia; too messy. "Better to disappear now without a word and remove myself from the situation as a witness."

Kakeru's mouth twisted, but before he had the chance to respond a set of muffled footsteps announced the cleaner's presence. There were a set of blue cloth booties on his feet and a medical mask hung around his neck. The overpowering scent of industrial-strength cleaners clung to him like a cloak, but his face was as blank as a slate. He said something to Kakeru in another language—Chinese, Giotto thought, or maybe Korean.

As Kakeru grunted, Giotto walked down the stairs with Takeshi trailing after him. Giotto bowed to the cleaner—European-style, and probably wildly old-fashioned, but it was the only kind of bow Giotto had ever truly been comfortable with—and then said, "Thank you for your assistance."

While Kakeru choked in the background, the cleaner just stared dispassionately at him. A second later he nodded and pulled out a small, white rectangle from his breast pocket. A business card, Giotto thought they were called. He smiled as he took it.

"I am Giotto," he introduced himself for the third time, holding out his free hand.

One of the cleaner's eyebrows did rise this time, and too late Giotto remembered that a handshake was a European gesture, but then the cleaner was already shaking his hand. As soon as he let go the man turned on his heel and left out the back. The man hadn't offered his name and there was nothing on the card up a phone number, but that just reassured Giotto of his professionalism more than anything. That kind of discretion often came from years of experience.

Pasting on a smile, Giotto turned back to the assassin and the little boy. "Well then, shall we?"

VII.

"Nana!" Iemitsu exclaimed as soon as his wife answered the phone. "Ah, to hear your voice again!"

"Oh, Iemitsu," Nana giggled, voice slightly distorted over the phone line. "How have you been?"

"Well, you know me," Iemitsu easily sidestepped. "But I have good news! I'll be coming home soon, and my boss is coming along as well. He wants to me you and my little Tuna-fish."

"Oh, that will be lovely! I'll have to make up the guest room and prepare lots of meals…"

Iemitsu smiled indulgently as his wife continued to chatter on about her preparations. He still had a knot in his chest over the thought of bringing Timoteo to Namimori. He'd been very careful to separate himself from Japan over the years, to make sure that none of the Vongola's enemies would be able to find out that he had a family, let alone where they were. Going home with Timoteo was a huge risk…but he had asked to meet Tsunayoshi, and Iemitsu couldn't deny him that.

Half of CEDEF was working on laying false tracks for Timoteo's "vacation" and only Lal Mirch knew of their true destination. That would have to be enough for now. Iemitsu didn't dare send any guards to Namimori, for fear of a security leak.

"How is Tsuna?" Iemitsu asked cheerfully once Nana had wound down. "Can I talk to him?"

"Oh, I don't think he's home from school yet," Nana said. There was a faint clink in the background, like a glass being set down.

Iemitsu hesitated, calculating the time difference in his head. "Nana, isn't it Sunday evening over there?" he asked carefully.

"Oh, you're right," Nana giggled.

For the first time in his life, Iemitsu's heat clench in his chest at the carefree sound. "_Nana_," he said seriously, trying to keep his mounting panic from his voice, "Where's Tsuna? When did you last see him?"

"Hmm, oh, I suppose it has been a little while… Maybe a week or two? He must be at a friend's house. I'm sure he's fine though; Tsuna is such a smart little boy!"

As his wife began to gush about their son, Iemitsu sat frozen at his desk, feeling like an icy hand had reached down his throat and was tugging at his insides. He couldn't get enough air in his lungs and the world was spinning around him, blurring into a mass of colors. He hung up the phone without a second thought, nearly missing the receiver, and ran out of his office like a bullet, screaming for his assistant as he went.

VIII.

Tokyo was…big. Very, very big. If Giotto had thought Namimori had grown since his first life, it was nothing compared to Tokyo. The city felt like a living organism, like a whale covered in barnacles. The buildings seemed to grow from the ground and life grew around them, forming a mass of colors and movement and sound and _life_ that in turns awed and terrified Giotto. Takeshi seemed to enjoy the city, at least, so Giotto kept his complaints to himself. It was worth it just to see some of the weight lift from his friend's shoulders.

Kakeru had taken them to a safe house in one of Tokyo's…less reputable districts. It was a fairly large apartment with only one bedroom that Giotto and Takeshi now shared. Kakeru came and left frequently, allowing the two boys to settle in while he went about his business. It wasn't a long term solution to the situation, but it gave Takeshi time to come to terms with how his life had changed.

It had only been three weeks since Yamamoto's death, but it felt like months. Takeshi was definitely doing better. He'd started smiling again and though part of Giotto knew that the boy was just covering up his grief, it was still a start. He'd also sworn himself to discovering who the silver-haired assassin had worked for and why he'd killed his father. The revenge bit worried Giotto, but… Children could be astoundingly resilient sometimes, and people as a whole tended to improve much more quickly if they had a goal to work towards.

"I'll help you find them," Giotto had immediately agreed. He still blamed himself for not saving Yamamoto, so it was the least he could do.

Kakeru returned that evening looking tired. There was a fleck of blood under his left ear; sloppy. He had barely closed the door before Takeshi was on him, fire burning in his eyes.

"My father taught you Shigure Soen Ryu, didn't he? Teach me," Takeshi said. He bowed deeply. "Please."

Kakeru looked blind-sided for a full two seconds before he turned away and scratched the side of his nose. "Yeah, sure," he said.

Takeshi beamed. Giotto thought the expression suited him much more than the gloom that had been clinging to him for the past few weeks.

They started the next morning with basic forms and exercises. Takeshi threw himself into the training headfirst. Giotto admired his sheer bloody-minded determination, and felt an irrational bit of pride as he watched him train.

One month later Kakeru returned after a five day absence with a grim face and the scent of death clinging to his skin. "I was doing a bit of digging," he announced. He stood at the edge of the kitchen but didn't enter, as though unable to cross some invisible line. "The swordsman who challenged Yamamoto-sensei was named Squalo Superbia. He was a junior member of a mafia assassination squad."

"Which family are they aligned with?"

Kakeru opened his mouth, and then a crash shattered the tense atmosphere of the apartment as the window near him exploded inward. A dark shape smashed into Kakeru and they both slammed into the floor. Giotto lunged forward and hooked a finger in the back of Takeshi's shirt, pulling him back, while he picked up a plate with his other hand. As the attacker straightened over Kakeru, Giotto threw the plate. The attacker deflected the impromptu weapon, knocking it to the ground, but by that time Giotto was already on them with fists ablaze.

The attacker only had time to make a shocked sound before Giotto's fist was buried in their abdomen. It was a woman, he realized now that he was close enough. Mid-thirties, European—probably Italian. And most likely someone trying to stop Kakeru from asking more questions. Giotto's flames flared and spread to the woman's skin. She opened her mouth to scream, then Giotto's other fist slammed into the side of her face. He felt her skull cave in and he grimaced, instantly backing off and letting his Flames fade.

Shit, he hadn't meant to hit her that hard. He hadn't gotten enough control over his Flames in this smaller body yet. Giotto took another step away from her body as blood began to pool. His gaze fell on Kakeru, and his lips thinned. Kakeru's sightless eyes stared up at him. Most of the blood gathering on the tiled floor wasn't from the attacker, but from the small knife buried in Kakeru's throat.

"_Merda_," Giotto swore under his breath.

He turned swiftly to Takeshi. The boy was staring at the two bodies with wide eyes and a paper white face. Giotto swore again.

"Come on, we need to leave," Giotto said as softly as he could.

Takeshi shuddered, then seemed to draw himself back together. He nodded sharply, and followed Giotto around the edge of the blood pool. Giotto doubted the woman was working alone, so they took only a second to grab their bags—thankfully still packed; the sparse apartment had never really had a homey feel—then headed toward the fire escape on the other side of the building. Giotto eased open the window, ushered Takeshi through, then climbed out after him.

They made it down to the street without being assaulted by anyone else, then ran.

IX.

"I'm sorry Director Sawada," the man on the other end of the phone said.

Iemitsu snarled and slammed his fist into his desk. "Don't apologize, explain!"

"Marjoram was already dead when I found her, killed by a heavy blow to the head with a blunt instrument. The yakuza hitman was dead as well. There was no immediate sign of your son, though Marjoram had confirmed seeing him in the apartment. There are definite signs of a child living here—a few dirty clothes, some books. But…"

Iemitsu placed a hand over his eyes and tried very hard not to start screaming at his agent. They'd been so close, so _damn_ close to retrieving his son, and now this.

"Call in all the resources you need," Iemitsu said hoarsely. "Canvas the entire area, fuck, use the goddamn Japanese police if you need to. But _find him_, and whoever else took him."

"Yes sir."

The line clicked, then went dead. Iemitsu kept the phone pressed to his ear and gritted his teeth until his jaw ached.

A tentative knock came at his office door. "Sir?" called a nervous voice. "Vongola Nono is here for you."

Iemitsu unclenched his jaw, set the phone down on its cradle, and bottled up all his emotions with an ease that could only come from years in the mafia. "Thank you," he said.

And if his voice still shook a little, no one mentioned it.

X.

Giotto and Takeshi didn't even make it through the first night without trouble finding them. They made it away from Kakeru's apartment easily enough and disappeared into the myriad of smaller cross streets in the area. By nightfall it was clear no one had followed them, but they didn't know where to spend the night or how to get food.

For the first time in quite a few years, Giotto found himself at a loss. Had he been in Italy 200 years ago he felt certain he had picked up enough tricks that he could survive on the streets for at least a week or two. But here, in 21st century Japan? He didn't have a clue where to start.

The trouble stumbled onto them in form of a young man who had—by Giotto's best guess—just finished a drug deal. When he saw Giotto and Takeshi sitting on a pair of grimy steps nearby, he immediately jumped at them with his face twisted into what was likely supposed to be an intimidating expression. He snarled about how they were in Sumigawa-kai territory and threatened all manner of violence.

It took longer than Giotto was proud to admit to realize that they boy belonged to a yakuza group and believed they were street kids trespassing on the group's territory.

"Oh," Giotto said, "No, we're—"

The kid didn't bother to let him finish before swinging. Giotto stepped back, easily dodging the slow punch, and frowned.

"Hey now—" he started but got interrupted again.

Giotto ducked this time and took a few steps to the side, forcing the boy away from Takeshi. He couldn't use his flames this time—couldn't chance killing a misguided child. Giotto's body was still weak and his punches probably felt like butterfly kisses, but he could still use the kid's own power against him.

Then Takeshi stepped up behind the kid and delivered a solid kick to the back of his knee. The kid crumpled to his knees and smacked his head against the edge of the steps. He fell back, grabbing his bleeding head and cursing up a storm. Giotto grinned proudly at Takeshi. He pulled the kid into a chokehold and held him as he thrashed, waiting until he passed out before letting him go.

Giotto double-checked the kid's breathing and pulse to confirm that he was merely unconscious. "Nice work," Giotto said as he gently dropped the kid on the pavement.

Takeshi smiled and scratched back of his head.

"Not bad indeed," a new voice commentated.

Giotto whirled around. A man leaned up against the corner to the alley. He was tall, almost six feet, with cropped hair.

The man clapped twice. "Heisuke will be pretty fucking pissed when he wakes up."

Giotto pressed his lips together and watched the man warily. This one was dangerous, his intuition said. More dangerous than Kakeru, even.

"You kids look like you need a place to stay. How about you come with me?"

"My father said not to follow strange men," Takeshi said in a faux-petulant tone. It sounded exactly like the one Ugetsu used when he wanted to mock someone without them knowing.

The man's eyebrows jumped up to his hairline and Giotto repressed a smile. That was an interesting angle to work. Sometimes one of the advantages to being a child was that everyone treated you like one.

"My daddy said men like you are called pedophiles. Are you a pedophile?" Giotto asked.

The man turned beet red and he lost all of his composure. "No, I'm not! Fucking brats…" He dissolved into mutters for a moment, then glowered at them.

Giotto had to hand it to the man—he had a pretty mean glare, almost as good as Alaude's. Takeshi flinched back, but Giotto just found himself smiling openly. This was far from an ideal situation, but it would help cover their disappearances for now. The man would also be of use if they were assaulted again.

"We would be interested in hearing what you have to offer. You're looking for some fresh recruits, correct?" Giotto said.

The man's expression faded back into a blank mask. "You know what you're signing up for."

"Of course."

He nodded slowly, eyeing the boys with an emerging sense of caution. "Follow me."


End file.
